Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Le Crackman Originale.

Remember when you surprised yourself,
within the dawn of adulthood,
while the minutes barreled into decades.
You sat before the bloom of neon cigarettes
held within a faux gold kitsch from a previous era:
a pen to untie a knot of lines,
a crumpled piece of paper relaxing into a creature.
Drugs were floating around
and you wore sunglasses at night.
The barrel of the pen loaded with ink.
The white of the paper a blindfold.
Pulling the trigger, lines splashed out
and the blood organized itself.
It was a wonderful thing.
An awkward and extravagant gentleman
with obvious tension.
His bald beauty.
His odd lashes.
His temperamental gesture.
His creaturely vanity.
His reaching around your waist.
You were enamored, amazed,
taken by surprise.
He told you that your teeth wouldn't be ground down.
He told you that your eyes wouldn't be painted over.
Any number of things:
they were nice departures.
You followed him around for a decade.
An ink blot keeping that tint rosy.